IT was a Tuesday afternoon in midsummer. Paris was deserted—a city
of the dead. Jim Barnett sat in his office with his feet on his desk.
He was in his shirt-sleeves. A glass of lager beer stood al his elbow. A green blind shut out the blazing sun. To the prejudiced eye, Barnett's appearance would have suggested slumber, and this impression would have been strengthened by his rather loud and rhythmical
breathing.
A sharp tap on his door made him bring his feet down with a jerk
and sit bolt upright.
'No! It can't be! The heat must be affecting my eyesight.' Barnett
